


Remnants and Reverberations

by Black_Flowers_Blossom (BlackSilkenRose)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Feels, But No Actual Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evolving Tags, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gonna fix the Allura issue, Keith (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Canon Fix-It, SHEITH - Freeform, Season 8 compliant, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, Vague descriptions of PTSD, but he tryin, canon apology, curtis is a main character, klance, no curtis hate, they're all safe I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 05:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSilkenRose/pseuds/Black_Flowers_Blossom
Summary: Keith has done many things he'd never wanted to in order to render a result. Despite the brash fire of his youth, he values the bigger picture over his own personal comfort and desires. This is just one of those things, he tells himself, that he just has to do in order to keep moving forward. Any uncertainty that's budded within him in the past has long since perished, drowned out answers so definitive that unencumbered, could break his heart in two.5 years, 4 months, 27 days. The Paladins have had more than enough time to carve out their places in this new and peaceful Universe. But Lance is struggling, Allura's absence growing greater in his heart as time passes, and Keith knows that he's near his limit of suffering. It's no small feat getting the gang back into the air as they leave on the 1st mission since the Lions have left, least of all when the supposed leader of the team is opposed. Keith hasn't seen Shiro since the wedding, and while he's glad to have the Admiral and his reliable husband on board, the past can't help but leak into the present. Most surprisingly of all, Lance has an ... unconventional solution in mind. He just may convince Keith to try it, or risk having to leave them both behind.





	1. Chapter 1

It isn't that Veronica had called - which is troubling enough, as it were - but it was that Lance had failed to answer. It was that they all know how much effort it takes for Keith to make that connection, how they'd all made a silent promise to be there when the encrypted wave flashes across their screens. They know that unless otherwise specified he is in deep space, and still there is no answer. 

The Blades have their work cut out for them despite the relative peace: supplying aid to planets in need, quelling uprisings, and stomping out threats that sound too close to the original call to arms of the Galra. It was understandable that he'd not been flexible with his time and attention over the past few years. If there was anything that signified the end of the war, it was in the quiet growth of new leadership among the stars, and not all of those leaders had the universe's best interests in mind. No, Keith has a job to do. He'll always have a job to do. So when the first wave had resulted in silence, he'd shrugged it off, assuming that Lance's schedule had kept him elsewhere. The second and third transpired similarly, but months apart: Keith's own responsibilities getting the better of him. By the fourth, he's noticed a pattern. Hunk had seemed oblivious to the issue, as he's the last of them to actually see Lance in person - and the one to make the most frequent visits at that - but Pidge has been on the receiving end of more than a couple silenced calls herself. She's taking it far less gracefully, and while Hunk had explained to both of them that he'd mentioned it to Lance, the excuses he relayed on his behalf were stale on the gourmand's tongue.

And _then_ Veronica calls.

He knows it’s serious then, after the call's been patched over sixteen different substations, masked, and run past three of his CO's before making its way to his outpost. He isn’t even in when it does, and poor Veronica has to hold on the line for no short of three varga while he circles back from an unsuccessful scouting mission that will guarantee his stay on the far out moon in a distant galaxy for another fortnight at least.

"What happened?" He'd had to go through decontamination on his way in, the acidity of the dust in the rocky sands of the satellite toxic to his soft human skin. It’s a small kindness that the visual from their connection was a fractal one, obscuring his lower half as he transitions from nudity to a loose pair of pants, towel slung over his shoulders to keep his hair from dripping down his back. It is a testament to the urgency he'd seen in the message, one that’s appreciated.

"Well... nothing, exactly." Veronica shakes her head, the desperate coil of frustration turning impossibly in her shoulders. "And that's the problem. He's slipping, and I'm scared that there's nothing else I can do." Her head turns up, tired gaze looking directly past the planets and towers and hours and straight into Keith's. "He's slipping." She repeats, lost.

"What do you mean by that?"

There is a huff, followed by a sudden stillness. Veronica turns abruptly to stare at something behind her, out of Keith's view, but settles back hurriedly. Keith narrows his eyes in thought, still pawing at his hair with the towel.

"I mean he's not Lance anymore. It's like... you know how for the first couple of years he was all quiet? But then we'd see glimpses of him here and there, and it would be okay for a while?" Keith nods, not understanding where the difference was. "It isn't like that anymore. It's like he's just stopped."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

The farm isn’t his first stop on Earth. If there is anything Keith's sure of when it came to Lance, even in the great absence of each other, it is that he would not succeed in anything without proper forethought and justification. Lance had always had a tendency to advocate based on his feelings rather than his own good, a fact Keith keeps in high regard while making the arrangements. No, it will not be easy to implement change in the former paladin's life: not unless his heart aligned with his needs. The anxiety that the thought brought prickles in the back of Keith's mind as he makes his way to port, guiding his ship in with special clearance during a shift change that leaves only the privy aware of his arrival. With all that he had learned from Veronica and the tens of things left unsaid between the others, he knows that even with help and planning there is room for failure. After all, hasn’t it been a year since he had last paid the other a visit? Months since he’s seen his face or heard his voice on the other end of the staticky line?

Keith doesn’t let the thought fester any longer. He’s got enough to worry about without pondering possible pitfalls. It’s time to get to work.

The arrangements that Keith requires to be in place before all else are the kind that take time, an unfortunate stipulation that requires diplomatic finesse he struggles to access. In part, it's just how Keith is. Leadership has come naturally to him over the years, but teamwork is an altogether different beast to tame. In truth, the stops he's pulling out to make this work have been in place for far longer than he cares to admit, though he'd not intended for them to be used in this manner. In point of fact, he's not sure letting the others in on his work will contribute to his success. It's a terrifying sort of place that he's carved out for himself, all alone in the stars, and even if he can pull Lance back from the edge, he wonders if he won't be the one to push him over in time. 

A meeting's been set: Iverson and Sam and a couple of other usually off-world liaises with connections to Keith and the Blades through his various projects. It is not put in any schedule, no notes provided or minutes taken. Sam has even gone so far as to interrupt the security feed as Keith walks the Garrison halls, looping it a handful of seconds at a time and creating the illusion of empty space in his stead. He is a ghost. He certainly _feels_ ghastly, all nerves that have been forced into silent submission. Even alone, there's a threat of unwanted eyes on him, but Keith does not let that threat alter his behavior. He knows that Sam has kept up his end of the bargain, and that there won't be any unplanned interruptions. Keith doesn't want the details of how he does it, doesn't ask. Doesn't bother looking through the windows into the hanger where the IGF Atlas sits pristine.

Keith keeps his eyes straight ahead of him, and descends into the stronghold's depths.

The opposition he's met with is fervent, but not for the reason's he's worried over. There's still a fear that lingers on the forefront of the Earth's existence, like a wounded animal that's not sure if the snarls and teeth it bares is going to protect it from predators. Keith empathizes deeply, feels the same curl at his lips to bark back, but he keeps his head. He maintains the facade of neutrality, behaves as the voice of reason in uncertain times. It seems to work, and though no one is happy with the propositions, there's a quiet agreement that measures will be taken. Keith asks that no one be briefed, and Sam, concerned and confused, asks if that includes Katie. Keith nods, explaining that it should be him to break it to her when they have more information. For now, he'll ask for her help in other ways, and Sam agrees to keep his mouth shut. 

None of them seem convinced that the plan will even make it off the ground. There are a few variables that don't seem likely to change, ones that are integral to what Keith is asking. That's where Pidge's help will come in, Keith reassures. He needs her to intercede, so she won't be completely in the dark. Sam responds well to that, and Keith's heart goes cold.

He doesn't even feel guilty for the lies. They are necessary.

What he does tell Pidge is what he plans to tell Lance when the time comes, more or less. Pidge isn't exactly a hard sell: she's too bored and too smart to find any of the projects headed by the Garrison challenging for very long. Even Sam's lab, with it's integrated Altean tech, doesn't quite hold the spark for her that it once did. Sam's worked hard to bring them to new lengths of understanding. He's even more of a brilliant engineer than Pidge is. But it doesn't stop her from plateauing, from growing stale with the rules and requirements of building a new world. Earth needs things now, in its second infancy, that Pidge just isn't interested in. Unlike Keith, she does feel guilty for it, and he figures that's probably why she's still there. Otherwise, who knows what would've captured her attention by now, in an infinite universe full of secrets just whispering to be found.

It also helps that she's excited at the prospect: genuinely tickled. Keith has already taken the steps to exploit that excitement in recruiting Hunk, who he's filled in already. Hunk had needed the most time out of all of them, with a business to run and a mission of his own, but he wasn't particularly against the idea to begin with. Keith hadn't pushed, had simply made the suggestion that he take the time and come along, and just asked that he think it over. That had been weeks ago, right after Veronica called, and Keith knows that even if Hunk hadn't reached out of his own accord, it was on his mind.

With Pidge in, Hunk will follow. She'd reported gleefully that he'd folded fairly quickly after she called him excitedly with the news of the journey, and Keith hopes without truly high expectation that her charms will continue to bless him as they endeavored for the rest. It's lucky happenstance that Hunk is already here on Earth - or not: Keith suspects he had made his way there after their last conversation and made a note to thank him privately later - and the wait that his presence avoids means another advance in his timetable. 

Keith's working around it, though. Rolling with the punches. It's better in the long run anyway, he reasons: the sooner they can get Lance up and out of his own head, the better. He tries not to think about the fact that it's taken him so long to even get this far, and wonders how much Veronica trusts him not to be down his throat by now. She knows he's trying, and he knows that she knows, but the lack of contact he's had from her since then threatens to make him fear the worst.

He's become such a pessimist in his solitude. Its laughable, really, considering how sickeningly optimistic he had at one time been.

The ship's been moved: he's made sure that it's somewhere no one will bother him while he works away tirelessly. There's so much to do still, and while he knows that he can continue the arrangements remotely as they move it will make things more difficult to do so. There's a sort of dependency on premeditation - the pretense of need involved - and while Iverson and Sam will do their part to act as if it's out of their hands, Keith needs to make sure that's actually so. There's ample justification ... or there will be after the fact. Keith's actions are reactive, responsible. No one else in the universe has the weight that he does on his shoulders, and he's damned if that weight isn't going to be good for something.

Still, he wishes it hadn't needed doing. Not by him. Not for the reasons that it does.

It's a day later, and he's received word from Pidge. She'd called with defeat in her voice, dread filling her where she'd held excitement before. It's unsurprising, but still ultimately disappointing. To her credit, Pidge had given it a fair go, even so far as to get herself kicked out of the office that used to be Iverson's in her attempt. Keith tried not to think about how that must've made her feel, memories of searching for her brother and father no doubt stacked behind this most recent rejection. But no, that hurt surely wasn't as bad as Keith imagined it. It was _his_ brain that made the connection of her loss then and the loss he was chasing: Pidge lived in the dark. He trusted Sam. More than that, he knew the reactions he would've gotten from her were not anywhere near the one's he could expect if she had known. 

That leaves him with the problem he was hoping to avoid with her assistance. It's objective truth that Keith's avoided Earth as much possible in the past four years, and his return has ventured far too close to ground zero behind that decision. Pidge's part, now that he knows she can't just _do it for him_, has acted as a Geiger counter: and the reading is high. High tension, high doubts, high animosity. He knows that he shouldn't expect anything different. He knows that he feels exactly the same.

And yet, just like that, he's ready to close that door in favor of opening another one. That doesn't mean the door won't slam and hit him in the face. It doesn't mean it won't slip back open with the slightest gust of wind from the other side. It doesn't even mean that it hasn't been already nailed shut, with him too far from it to have noticed. What it _does_ mean is that he's ready for that. As ready as he can be with the stakes so high.

_He's slipping_. He makes sure to play these words over in his head as many times as he needs to, to recreate the image of Veronica - strong, brave, challenging Veronica - bowing her head in defeat when coming to him for help. Not Pidge. Not Hunk. Not anyone else. Him.

For god's sake, she works _at_ the Garrison.

Keith has done many things he'd never wanted to in order to render a result. Despite the brash fire of his youth, he values the bigger picture over his own personal comfort and desires. This is just one of those things, he tells himself, that he just has to do in order to keep moving forward. And he is: moving forward. He has work to do, a universe in need of saving, and no injury to his person or pride is great enough to stand in his way. Any uncertainty that's budded within him in the past has long since perished, drowned out answers so definitive that unencumbered, could break his heart in two.

Keith knows now, and he's learned from his mistakes.

He's on the move, having closed all communications to his ship and logged off of Blade's network. There's more work to be done in the morning, but none that will drastically change his current mission. No, all of the tools and ploys in the universe aren't going to help him now, not when they stand against the reason of the innately stubborn. Keith is aware that he possesses the same traits that will make changing the other's conviction difficult, but he's going to choose to see that as an asset. For the moment, that and a shared history are all he has.

He makes his way toward his objective and he thinks of Lance. He wonders whether or not the gesture he's about to make will be well received: or even understood at all. He thinks it will, thinks that of all of them Lance is the most likely to understand the situation without needed explication, but he expects that it won't end at that. Knowing Lance, he'll undoubtedly be roped into an exaggerated telling of his tale of woe, far too many years past to make any sort of implication as to where that leaves any of them now. Still, he hopes it'll at least make Lance smile. There's an seedling of fear in him, one that he dares not water, that expects Lance to turn him away without consideration. Still, Keith is going to hold out hope. He's going to set his expectations based on his own experiences with Lance rather than these unfounded anxieties. Lance deserves that. Least of all, Lance deserves his benefit of the doubt.

Buttons light up under his fingertips, and Keith is where he needs to be. He knows he still has time, and basks in the seconds that pass as a reprieve from what he's about to do. Lance, he thinks, would laugh at him if he knew how foolish he felt. He wants to laugh with him at the thought, but can't quite seem to find the humor that the persona of the other in his memory would've grasped onto. Instead there is a hollow solemnity that grows from his toes upwards, creeping into the reality that the moment has finally arrived.

Keith shuts is eyes, counting to ten. It's enough to ground him, to solidify his confidence in the mission, and to close the gates to all other thought. He's given himself the time to confirm his convictions, not to worry over the 'what ifs' and 'what could have beens' that come when he rests idly. He's already been through all those scenarios anyway, and none of them result in anything better. Different, perhaps, but never better. Finding the most defensible spot in the room, Keith becomes a fixture on the wall. The clock on the bookcase ticks time forward, a rising eulogy to an era uninterrupted by the treachery within himself. Keith lays in wait, and his chest grows cold.

_Patience_, he tells himself, _yields focus_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to Pices Dragon, who left the first comment! I was starting to worry that there was no one out there ◉_◉
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr.

Admiral Takashi Shirogane of the planet Earth has had more shit thrown at him than any man in the history of the universe. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's why, after a week like the one he's having, he reminds himself he can handle it.

Still, he's going to need a drink.

He's been buddy spiked, the Holt siblings at the helm of blame. First had been Matt, who's on his case yet again about stress and work and god knows what else. He's sick of hearing it, the same old drone of misplaced concern eating away at his ears, festering into rot. Matt's been trying to get him to take a break since he'd settled planetside, and he had... for a little. Shiro's of the opinion that he had taken too much time from work then: it was like operations around the planet just stopped. Time stopped. 

And then it started again, just without Shiro.

The Earth needed taking care of, needed fixing, but so had he. When the final battles were over, the sacrifices of all counted and cataloged, Shiro had taken a step back from it all to assess what was left. He was down an arm, a team, a friend: the entire universe had nearly blinked out of existence. No one had blamed him for needing time to come to terms with that.

Except he hadn't needed time. Despite what Iverson or the countless psychiatrists he'd been required to see upon his return said, he was fine. Just fine.

Even so, he's not fought too hard against the advice, even celebrated it a little. He'd come back - he'd had a home to come back to - and that was no small feat. A little time off surely couldn't hurt, he'd reasoned then, looking over the release papers that had been taped to his door for all to see. He wasn't an engineer or a scientist anyway. Surely, they could start to rebuild without him.

So they did. One brick at a time, the Earth began to grow again. Like the crystals on the back of the first Balmera they had freed from the Galra so long ago, humanity began to push its way back to the surface.

Shiro isn't ungrateful. He knows that everyone had the best of intentions in asking him to slow down. Hell, slowing down and taking stock is the only reason he has the life he does now. Otherwise, he'd have been far too distracted to notice that not all of the eyes on him were purely out of serene reverence. He'd have been far too busy to have accepted the invitation of a crew member who had also seen far more than could be explained away in a lifetime. He'd have been too duty-bound to seek something for himself in that shared understanding, something that he'd let lose importance to him when every choice had been the difference between peace in the universe or the end of everything.

Shiro is grateful for that above all else.

But the days had turned long, stretching into a year of nearly nothing changing despite the appearance of progress. All around him, Shiro saw the world built from scathed tatters of a past civilization: a past world which he still belonged to. All around, Shiro continued to be the support of those evolving, but never quite managed to evolve himself.

Shiro knows he is a relic. He knows that there's very little for him to contribute to the future that could not be done by someone else. He's had five years, four months, and twenty seven days to come to terms with it. And he has: he has come to terms and is happy to be where he is. He is happy, he tells Matt for the quintillianth time, and wishes that everyone else would just accept that. They seem hell bent on fighting him over his own happiness despite that, and he can't help but muse over why.

The second barraging melee had come from Pidge, falling into formation opposite her brother. Shiro hadn't really expected it to come from her, who had seemed more than happy to withdraw into her own projects in the first few years of their return to Earth, but he suspects his information there is a little bit outdated. There's no real reason he can think of not to know. It's not as if Pidge is off planet like Hunk or disinterested in his company like Lance. Though, he supposes he can't place blame on the latter, seeing as he hasn't exactly given him reason to be excited over his presence. Pidge had been sure to rub that in when they'd spoken, and Shiro kicks himself for letting her goad him like that. Sure, he feels guilty. He feels guilty that Pidge somehow _knows_ him, after all these years, when he can't even remember what developments she's been making on her AI - if there are any new developments on it. He feels guilty that Lance doesn't want to come to him for advice, knowing that his absence from his life probably isn't making it easy to ask for help. He feels guilty that he's not more interested in what's happening out in the stars, because he just can't be concerned with alien life when he's got so much to do to bring Earth into a defensible future. But none of that guilt, he knows, is enough to make him _do_ anything about it. There's too much here at stake, he reasons, the echo of his mental checklist bouncing around in the back of his mind.

Yet, when Pidge came, she'd somehow known exactly what to say to make him feel bad about it.

"Come on, Shiro, we won't even be out there that long. Just a few weeks and then you'll be right back where you are." He'd come up with an excuse then, one he can't remember now. It was noncommittal, which is what matters. "You know what it would mean to us - what it would mean to me - if you'd come. Think about what it'll mean to Lance! He could really use the time."

"Yeah, I agree. You should definitely go." He'd added, for safe measure. "Don't let me be the reason you don't, Pidge."

He remembers how the brightness in her eyes had dulled out then, the spark dampened. He hates that look, and he's seen it more in the past few years just sitting around the Holt's dinner table than he'd ever seen when they were at war. 

"Shiro..."

"It's late, Katie. I've got a lot to do."

He remembers this as he walks, striding through the long Garrison corridors toward the faculty offices, like the reverberation of sounds beyond human perception. He does not hear the words, but they are with him. They are in every heavy step he takes, every action of his that leads him anywhere but to a shuttle that will take him off world.

"Oh, do you?" She spits bile in the memory. He thinks now that she may have just been tired, but in his head the words sound like acid. "Do you really, Shiro? What's so important - "

He stops. The door in front of him is his own, his office. It's late, past regular hours for paper pushers like him, even if he does hold the title of someone who should be in the air. As he reaches for the keypad he hesitates, a heavy feeling falling over him as his mind switches his place with Pidge's as he'd cut her off, motioning toward the door.

"Goodnight, Katie."

Shiro sighs heavily, then punches in his entry code. It's time for that drink.

He doesn't bother with the lights right away; there's a lamp on his desk that's far less blinding than the military grade ones built into the ceiling. If he's being honest with himself, and it seems that he is for the moment, he's not planning on getting all that much work done. A little, but not right away at least. There's an ache inside of him that's opening up into his stomach, Pidge's expression feeding into it, and for that he needs some time to readjust. She should know better, he tells himself as the door clicks shut and he maneuvers behind the desk from sheer muscle memory, that there's no way he's just picking up and leaving for a month-long joyride in space. Not that he even knows how long she'd been proposing, really. He wasn't about to indulge her even that far, and he's certainly not going to keep thinking about it now that she's departed. No, that's not why he's here. He's here for the bottle of whiskey hidden in his bookshelf, the one for which he keeps a set of glasses in his bottom desk drawer.

There's a moment in between breaths while he reaches down with his prosthetic to fetch the glasses, the other hand poised over the light, when he realizes that something's wrong. It isn't a sense of danger - at least, not immediate. Rather, it's an icy chill, like cold water being poured down his spine that tells him he is not alone in the room, and it's belated. He's already touched the switch, fingers as light as air against the button, and he knows now that there is no pretending that he hasn't just locked himself in with a familiar feeling predator. A ghoul.

"Hello, Shiro."

Four years, two months, and fourteen days. That's how long it's been since Shiro's met the eyes of the Keith Kogane in front of him. Rather, since those violet eyes fluttered shut before he'd turned his back on him and walked away.

Shiro's had time to make peace with his place in the universe, but he's of the opinion that any time is too soon for this. 

"Drink, Keith?"

Keith doesn't seem interested in his offer. not budging from his spot in the corner of the office. His arms are crossed against his chest, and Shiro swears that while he's leaning back against the wall he's somehow noticeably taller than he used to be. His appraisal catches the slight but unintended rise of the other's eyebrow when the glasses touch the surface of the desk, but Shiro can't bring himself to care. 

He doesn't care. Not about the fact that Keith's making what seems to be a conscious effort not to show anything resembling emotion on his face. Not that he's got his hair, longer than Shiro's ever seen it, woven in a tight braid against his skull. Not that standing here, now, there is only a shadow of the boy Shiro once saw in him every time they were together. No, Shiro doesn't care that he's gone, replaced by this impostor of a man. 

A second goes by and Shiro comes to the conclusion that Keith isn't going to say anything. He's waiting, not taking the drink as an invitation, because he knows it wasn't. He knows that, even though he couldn't possibly know a thing about Shiro after so long apart. And yet, he's correct. Shiro sighs and lets his weight fall into his chair, though he doesn't quite slouch as much as he'd become accustomed to when alone. After all, he's not alone. Far from it.

"What can I do for you?" He says it as if speaking to a cadet who's interrupted him during office hours, and aside from the contempt he can't quite drain from his eyes, it's much the same. He doesn't bother asking how he got the access code for his office: the obvious answer is Matt, even if not directly. Now he knows where the flanking was leading him: right into the face of a cliff. Except, he's seen this cliff before, and he's just as sure now as he ever was that he's not interested in jumping off of it, memories of hover bikes be damned.

"There's been a request for you to take some time and accompany an envoy looking into diplomatic proceedings along the edge planets of the Coalition." Keith says this as if reciting a script from a teleprompter, and Shiro finds himself briefly wondering if he's still engaged in the humanitarian end of the Blade's recovery effort. He shuts the thought down quickly, overly aware of the fact that he doesn't want to know. Whatever Keith's been up to, it's none of his business. "I heard you turned it down, and came to ask that you reconsider."

Shiro hums in response, eyes narrowing. Was that what Pidge was on about? He can't help but find it awfully convenient that she'd framed it more as a leisure trip than a business venture, but he's also too focused on the fact that Keith is here to really focus on it. That, and there's a headache creeping up on him, announcing its presence with a dull thudding in his temple. Great, he thinks. Just what the situation needs. 

"Why me?" He settles on, determined to get more information before making any statements to be contradicted. Keith quirks an eyebrow at him, so he elaborates. "I'm not a diplomat."

"Voltron." He say with just a shrug.

Shiro frowns, disappointed. He's tempted to stay quiet, not to dignify such a half-assed answer with a response, but he's not in the mood to play games. It's a sad attempt at piquing his interest, and he wonders why Keith has even bothered to come all this way if he doesn't actually plan on swaying him. Still, he's not going to get more of an answer than that unless he engages on his own. He doesn't really need one, but the situation is strange enough that he feels entitled to more than single word answers. He feels entitled to a lot, when it comes to Keith, but doesn't seem to have anything to show for it.

"Voltron isn't a variable in the peace anymore. It's widely known that the lions have scattered. There is no Voltron, Keith." It's said dryly, as if he's speaking to a child. The other's lips purse.

"Does it matter?"

There's a brief moment where Shiro can hear the tiredness in Keith's voice, the first sign that he's just as unhappy to be there as Shiro is to have him. It validates something in him, a sort of morbid fascination with the way his mask slips, showing his discomfort. Shiro isn't really satisfied with the answer as a whole, but he savors it. Then, Keith's continues.

"There isn't any need for the lions anyway; the planets on the docket aren't in need of physical intervention. It's come to our attention that there's lingering hesitancy to commit to peace without a universal doctrine and guidelines between worlds. There's too many different cultures, even on the same planets, so we've been asked to step in to help formulate those rules."

Shiro's attention lands on the last bit, lending to what little curiosity he'd had before. "We?"

Keith tenses. Shiro wouldn't have noticed if not for the way Keith's facade returns. 

"Us." He meets his eye, and Shiro can almost feel how much heat is in the look they share. "All of us."

His mind drifts back to Pidge, so excited at the prospect of another journey out beyond the stars. She hadn't made mention of the details, besides that they'd been tasked with a mission, so Shiro hadn't labeled it as important to the state of the universe. Clearly, for Keith to come to him, there was more to it. For Keith to choose to be involved with it further - now that's got him curious. He decides to shake his head in response to that, feigning disinterest.

"I'm not sold, Keith. You have your 'us.' Voltron is the four of you; I shouldn't be a part of the equation." 

The words are bitter on his tongue. He doesn't really mean it - or at least he doesn't mean to mean it - and yet it feels too close to the truth. There's a numbness rising from the back of his neck and Shiro recalls saying something similar in what feels like a different lifetime. The words they mimic are also said to Keith, and some sort of intangible baton is being passed between them. It pains Shiro to think about, and if only he were able to separate what he'd felt then from what he feels now he'd be able to see the warning of unacceptability that somehow remains in both realms of reality.

"Shiro," Keith says quietly, and suddenly the heat coming from the younger man is gone. Shiro is no longer a veteran hero, and Keith is no more a stranger than his own reflection. His voice, just like then, holds something fragile, pleading. Something just for him. Shiro hears it in his next words, and as they drag out of the other's mouth he truly feels sorry for what they are now. Wishes, even, that they could go back. The longing pings in his chest, alien and unwelcome. "I'm afraid for Lance... that he doesn't have much time left if we don't do something."

"Why do you need me?" 

It's a loaded question. He knows it now that it's slid off his tongue, but it falls unnoticed. Keith is looking away, head hanging down toward the floor and shaking from side to side. While his posture hasn't changed, his arms seem to be holding him, rather than closing him off defensively. It strikes Shiro as both familiar and out of time.

"Because he won't listen to me. I'm not enough... None of us are. He says he won't go for me. But he will for you." Keith looks up at him through translucent eyelashes, and though he can't tell why Shiro's gut reaction is to think of how unfair it is for him to look like that. "He said if you go, he'll come too."

Shiro is taken aback. So much so that he immediately forgets why the affection is lost between them. This is just Keith, and Keith is here, and when has Shiro ever been able to say no to him? When has Keith asked anything of him - truly asked - really?

And then Shiro remembers the last time they spoke and has his answer.

"Come on, Keith, I can't just - I can't just pick up and run off into space with you lot. I have work to do here." He stumbles, his voice breaking from the authoritarian tone that he's held onto since their conversation began and leaving his throat feeling wrecked. It's a low blow, he knows, but adds, "I can't just leave Curtis behind."

The moment between them breaks like fine hairs snapped between vicious claws. Keith doesn't have to move for his entire aura to change back, again devoid of anything resembling humanity. Shiro wants to sigh exaggeratedly, but keeps a pin in it. He's the more mature adult out of the two anyway - if the past has any bearing on where they are now - and he's going to act like it.

"Bring him." There's a professional air to the way that Keith gives nothing away as he says this, calm and collected, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I've already made the recommendation that we should have a representative from Earth who isn't a paladin along, as part of the committee. Curtis is especially qualified; there's very few people outside of our group who were involved in the way he was when the war ended. His clearance is still active - I've checked. His perspective would certainly be valuable, so please extend the invitation."

It would be humorous if it wasn't infuriating. Shiro wants to shake him or throttle him. Keith isn't supposed to be rational when it comes to this - which is why he'd even bothered saying it - and Shiro can't be the one to act petulant now that he's brought it up. He does pause, though, to wonder why it's been so long since they've seen each other if he's misjudged the issue. Keith stares.

"I don't have any time coming." 

It's a lie, and they both know it; Shiro hasn't taken a day off for himself since the honeymoon, with the exception of a long weekend two summers ago when Curtis had come down with hay fever. Keith ignores him, peeling off the wall with eerie fluidity and shifting on his heels.

"Let me know by tomorrow. Wave contact's on your desk." 

Because of course it is. Keith's still a cocky show off, and Shiro's sure that a part of him has enjoyed watching his eyes flick down to the scrap of paper that's been waiting to be noticed since he entered the room. Shiro waits until Keith's turned to roll his eyes. 

"I'll pick up Lance when you give the word."

It isn't until Keith is gone that he realizes his glass is empty, the bottle still in it's place on the shelf. 

_Fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @here_for_the_klance for reminding me to post this with your comment. If your username is anything to go by, this chapter will probably be more up your alley than the last two. Additional thank yous to @PicesDragon and Brian Smith! Thanks so much for reading and your kind words! 
> 
> And just in case the tags are unclear: this story will be Klance & Sheith - I will literally ship anything if you give me the chance. Have fun figuring out how this dumpster fire is going to happen (and if you're not into it, just move on).
> 
> Also a loving thanks to my beta, Not_Enough_Sapphics for putting up with me and my ramblings, as well as convincing me to cut this monster of a chapter in half. It was nearly 9k words, one panic attack, and a prayer to an obscure god in some language resembling San Fra.
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://notanothernameforrose.tumblr.com/)

Each time Keith ventures out to the farm, he lets himself still, breath hitching at the views. It's nothing like the land surrounding the Garrison, all plush and green, and he can see why Lance has gone out of his way to make this his home. The farm itself sits along a plateau of pasture amidst rolling hills, the largest being where Keith's parked his hoverbike. It's behind the barn, a few acres between the gates of the last paddock, a deep stream cutting into the juncture where the land sharply rises. Beyond the front of the farm the land descends just as drastically, making Lance's little haven its own world against the sky. The hills continue down, and in the distance there's a twinkle of what looks like civilization. It isn't much - only one road leading in and out - the duplicitous isolation hiding the fact that the nearest city is only a half an hour away. The drive that leads to Lance's home is a long one. Private. Not many make it up his way, and Keith knows he prefers it that way. There isn't much need to; there's an old-fashioned water wheel a ways down the stream that powers the small house to the East, connected to the barn and stables by a self replicating generator that Pidge and Hunk had installed after Lance's first year out here. He'd been slumming it then, in their opinion, relying only on a single solar panel to connect him with the outside world. Lance had claimed not to need electricity, and while it hadn't gotten in his way while constructing the place, he'd been grateful for it once the others had gotten fed up with his harried state. Lance, while enjoying a simpler life, had always indulged in the comforts of modern technology. Especially now that the Earth had been connected with far more advanced civilizations, there was really no need for him to go without.

Keith's visits to the farm aren't often, but he's always made a habit of staying as long as possible when he's here. It's how he knows to leave his bike where it is: the journey back up the hill with it isn't worth a short lived visit. He'd nearly decimated the greenery his first time out, not having enough lift for the steep slope and burning right through the patch he was stuck on, eventually high tailing it down the other side and looping through town before making his way back to where he'd started. It isn't a terribly long detour, an hour or two at most, but his time is budgeted elsewhere. Leaving the long way would mean taking that time from either his preparations, or his talk with Lance. Neither, he knows, he can afford.

Of course, Shiro has waited until the last possible minute to send the wave to Keith. It's no surprise, really, but it still manages to leave Keith's stomach turning sourly. His patience had been thin to begin with, and as the hours drew out between his departure and the slow setting of the sun, he can't help but to feel as if the older man had put it off just to spite him. It's less of a hunch than an educated guess, and the knowledge behind it stirs something within him that he knows is best left untouched. Still, he stares at the message for a second longer than he needs to, taking in the name on the communicator as if it's written in some sort of foreign language that he's magically able to understand. Seeing Shiro had felt like that too, both known to him and entirely alien.

Lance catches sight of him while the light's still bright, lifting a hand in the air from his spot down below to signal that he's welcome. Keith returns the gesture, silently glad that he'd not had to wait longer for a definitive answer on Shiro's part, and starts down the slope. Lance has gotten used to guests coming in through the less wandered road along the back hill, having installed a series of tall wooden posts every foot or so down the makeshift path to help steady against gravity on the way. Keith takes his time, leaning heavily on his side as he goes. He knows that Lance will wait preservedly, and doesn't expect to be goaded about how long it takes. If anything, his time alone has made Lance more patient.

Keith is greeted with an outstretched hand and pulled into a friendly hug. He doesn't mind the contact; Lance has always been affectionate and he's one of the few people in the universe that Keith is comfortable exercising his own brand of amiability with. They don't head for the house, instead taking a quick trip through the barn where Keith has a chance to say hello to more than one old friend, before shimmying up the ladder to the haystack. It's an easy climb out the large, shuttered windows to the roof and Keith hangs back down once his legs are up to accept offerings of food and beer that Lance has stashed in one of his reserve coolers. It's a cloudless evening, and from their perch the whole valley is lit in burnt orange and crisp sulfur yellows. Keith lets himself relax: the first time in what feels like a lifetime. He knows it's been too long since he's shared times like these with the other, but lets himself enjoy the moment rather than berate himself further. Lance seems equally at peace: or he would, if it had been anyone else observing. Keith can tell that there's something tired in the way his friend sits beside him, looking out at one of the most beautiful sunsets Keith thinks he's ever seen, as if just waiting for it all to be over.

"So, what's my favorite Blade doing in this sector of the quadrant?" Lance is aware he's being studied, so Keith turns his head back to the sights in front of them. He takes a small sip from the can in his hand, cold and tingling, before nudging the other's shoulder with his own. Lance grins lightly at the contact and pushes back gently.

"Just thought I'd visit an old friend while I'm here."

"Wow, Keith," Lance laughs humorlessly, not bothering to look Keith's way. "You're an even worse liar than you were before."

"So are you." 

It's not said with any fire. There's genuine concern in Keith's voice, and maybe something akin to remorse. Lance blinks slowly, looking down at the beer in his hand before throwing a dashing smile on and sending it his way. And it is dashing, though Keith lingers on the imperfections he sees in it's wake. Lance is far less groomed than in years past, hair longer, waving toward his shoulders, beard short but scraggly. His skin, still smooth, is littered with sunspots and patches - coffee stains, Keith thinks fondly - easily avoidable with sunblock and reasonable exposure. His shirt is clean, wrinkled as it is, but the jeans he dons hold days of wear. On instinct, Keith leans in a fraction. Even in space, Lance had always made a habit of wearing a dash of scent (and Keith wonders where one acquires cologne on alien worlds). Here, he smells like sweat and dirt and hay. It isn't unpleasant, but it's also not _him._

"Ha," he laughs, and it pulls at something within the other. "I haven't said anything yet. What could I be lying about?"

"This. This whole thing is a lie. You can drop the act, you know. I'm not here to tell you off." 

Keith doesn't bother elaborating, but he does take the time to meet Lance's eye. There's no judgement in the look he gives him, no sense that he's going to push further. Lance lets the smile slide off his face. His shoulders go lax, draining of the tension that was holding them in an upright position.

"Yeah, well, it beats not pretending." There it is: what Veronica had spoken to him about. The tone of Lance's voice is flat, none of the careful jest that he'd always carried with him before. Hollow. Keith swallows heavily, suddenly feeling the emotional weight of what the other's have seen in him over the years grow. "So which came first, you or Pidge?"

"She was here recently?"

"Like you don't know. She's all worked up about some space journey or something that _someone's_ roped her and Hunk into. She was out here just last week, talking my ear off about how everyone has to be there." Keith groans inwardly, but has enough sense to wonder if she didn't give him more room to operate by priming him with some of the details. Sure enough, Lance doesn't seem to hold any real distaste for the suggestion, though Keith finds his new demeanor more difficult to read. Rather than offer an explanation, he decides to let the other share what he knows. 

"You've heard then."

"Sounds like it. Should've known it was you behind it, but frankly didn't think this was something you'd show up to. " Lance quirks an eyebrow up as he says it, curious despite himself. It's a small bit of progress, and Keith is happy to latch onto the observation. "So, what'd you have to do to convince Shiro to come along? He is coming, right? Pidge didn't make that part up?" 

Keith stills, the rigidity taking hold of his spine a reflexive response to unwanted emotion. He's trained himself, mostly, to clamp down on any feelings that may render an inappropriate reaction during diplomatic proceedings. He's had to, what with the way that the state of the universe has become a sort of responsibility of his now that the war's ended. Much of that help has come from Hunk, who's life is the closest to his in terms of mission, and for a brief moment Keith forgets that Lance is depending on his ability to remove the mask of Blade Keith - Ambassador Kogane - in favor of his friend.

His friend who hasn't spoken to or about Shiro in over four years.

He's made the right choice in goading Shiro's compliance beforehand. That much is clear now, with the way in which Lance hopes he'll let something personal slip. He's tempted to lie, to act as if Shiro's company had been a be a welcome sort of thing, but he knows Lance can see right through him . He's always been able to- a side effect of losing the optimistic hope he'd had in his youth, no doubt - but that's okay. It's easier to just be honest about it. It's in that vein that he's willing to admit how tired he is, and hope it will suffice. He knows, though, that its far from enough.

"It didn't take much. I told him you wouldn't go without him."

"Well, I mean, you're not wrong." Lance seems about to laugh again, but instead wrinkles his nose, as if put off. Keith holds his breath. "How'd that go, by the way?" 

"Pretty much how you'd expect."

"Hm." 

There's a moment's pause, and Keith knows that he's the one being examined. Lance isn't hiding it, elongating the silence to drink languidly from the can in his hand, just watching. Keith isn't sure what there is to gain from his expression, his eyes made to squint as the the new appearance of clouds shift and one of the last vestiges of daylight angles at them dead on. He lifts his arm across his sight, taking refuge from both the brightness and from the other's scrutiny, but Lance doesn't shift his gaze. Keith can't see, but it's grown sly.

"You still in love with him?"

Keith likes to think that if he was holding his drink to his mouth, he wouldn't have choked. 

Lance is smiling at him weakly, clearly trying not to seem too pleased with himself. It's bittersweet; Keith's shock isn't embarrassed or shy. Rather, there's a hurt behind it - and Lance is softening the blow with the humor in his tone. It's so like him - to deflect other's pain and garner solidarity in jest - and yet it is different. The Lance of old had a gift for it, usually taking the brunt of his own understanding through self depreciation. Keith's always appreciated that part of him, the part that laughs at his own expense to preserve everyone else. The part that accepts responsibility as the joke in order to protect those he cares about. Keith looks at Lance with incredulity more than surprise, and cannot find that part of him in his smile.

"No..." The look Lance gives him is skeptical. He's not amused. "Not anymore."

"Terrible." Lance says, just shaking his head dramatically. It's almost enough to make Keith chuckle, despite the way his heart betrays him with its percussive beating. _Traitor_, he thinks, _I prepared for this. _"Terrible liar."

They share a small laugh, though neither rumbles from their stomachs. Keith is torn between wondering just how much Lance knows about him - the things he hasn't spoken to anyone - and whether or not he's given away anything himself. It's an unintentional slip when his mind takes him to the halls of the Castle, to the spaces in between battles in which they'd been safe. Together. He muses, without letting himself fall too deeply, if Lance had put the pieces together back then. It leaves a dull ache within him, one that whispers a reminder that _things unsaid are not inherently unknown_, and he's forced to pull himself back from the thought before it devours him whole.

The rules seem shifted now, like an exchange being made between two broken hearts. Both sides hold secrets, valuable only to themselves and each other. He can't quite pinpoint how Lance seems to simply _know, _but a small part of him is grateful not to shoulder the burden of that knowledge alone. 

Vulnerability is a double edged sword, in Keith's opinion. It had been both the obstacle that he'd needed to overcome as a Paladin of Voltron in order to succeed, but it had also been the nail in the coffin to the pain that sidled up against his side, as warm as Lance's shoulder. Keith is not vulnerable often or with many, and in the wake of the last handful of years, those numbers have somehow grown smaller. It's a sad fact - one that he works tirelessly to ignore - that while he's been able to connect with more people and cultures across the stars, his family seems to be fading beneath his fingertips.

Lance is fading. But unlike the other, there's still time to rekindle his fire.

When Keith looks up at him, it's with a depreciating grin that holds all of his worries, all of the pain that he's carried. And it's despite knowing that he will, on some level, that he feels a slow trickle of relief to see that Lance accepts it, his own in tow. 

It doesn't last long, though. He needs to look away if he's going to make it through, and with the cascade of evening he's not short on distractions to pull at his attention.

"I'm not. I'm... I'm still hurt sure, but I'm not in love with him." 

There's a hand on his arm, and Keith is suddenly aware of the fact that he can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Friendly, reassuring. He knows the last person to do so wasn't Lance. Probably, he thinks, it wasn't the one whose memory is the most prevalent. But the touch is gone too soon, faster than he's able to get lost in it. Faster than he's able to cling to it. 

"I'll believe that when Kaltenecker flies." Keith shakes his head at the joke, sucking in a breath of air that refreshes him. He's calm again - not that he'd really lost his cool to begin with - and Keith doesn't even feel the need to bother pointing out that Kaltenecker has been through space many a time, and that even though it may be a technicality it should still count.

Both of them allow a few doboshes to tick by. Keith's thoughts shift, carefully considering when and how Lance has grown. In retrospect it seems more obvious, but even the drastic events that had impacted him the most out of the group appear more effects than causes to Keith. No, Lance deserves more credit than that. His maturity hadn't bloomed out of the trauma, though there's no doubt that it had spurred things along. Rather, the trying times had been Lance's moments to showcase what was already there. Before they'd left Earth the first time, he'd already been _nearly_ a man. Why it surprised Keith now, after years of play fighting and sharing battle scars, that he'd transitioned smoothly to adulthood was beyond him.

Lance had always been a challenge. He'd butted heads with Keith as a means to get him to overcome his own shortcomings. He had picked up Keith's slack whenever it was too much for him. He knew, more than the others - more than one other in particular - how _young_ he really was. When the pressure had pushed Keith to break, Lance had been the one to empathize, to lend him compassion. Lance had taken up the mantle of leader more times than Keith knows he can remember, but never once had he looked for recognition. That, he left for the Black Paladins. 

There's a tinge of shame that comes with Keith's understanding that Lance had surpassed them - all of them - far earlier than he'd have cared to admit at the time. His mind runs through the battles he'd been unable to direct, the meetings he'd ruined with his hot headed outbursts. He remembers how easily the others would have followed him down doomed paths - if Lance hadn't contradicted him.

Keith knows he owes it to him to repay the favor.

"He's bringing Curtis." Lance blanches, which Keith secretly appreciates. He doesn't let it show, though. His previous concessions are enough, he thinks, and chooses to let them speak for him. Lance, on the other hand, convulses in an exaggerated full- body shiver.

"Wow, this is totally going to suck for you."

"So you're coming, then?" 

Lance twinges at the hopefulness in the other's voice, and Keith regrets it a bit. He regrets it more once the playful gesture drops away again, as if it had been an unwanted oversight. 

"I didn't say that. But hell.... you _must_ be worried about me if you're willing to subject yourself to that."

"Yeah, man. We all are." 

And there it is: the line. Lance's attention is faded out, his eyes drifting over the horizon but not seeing anything at all. Keith knows he's stepped in the wrong direction, but it's still progress in it's own way. It's a confirmation, at least, that what he's trying to accomplish is needed. If Lance suffers for him knowing that - well, at least he's _alive._ A beat passes, and Keith lets himself mimic the devilish grin that Lance had worn earlier. Then, he tries again.

"It's not all about you, though."

"No shit? Then who's it for?"

He's perked up, at least, and while Lance doesn't quite seem interested in sharing in Keith's amusement, the fact that he bites hints at his desire to. Part of him, a buried part, but there nonetheless.

"I dunno, us?" Keith gestures vaguely, but Lance understands that he means all of them. "Me? I haven't stopped with the Blades since we ended the war and Pidge is pulling her hair out of boredom. Hunk's frustrated by the fact that his mission has turned into a glorified catering business. I just want to do something selfish. For us."

"And... Shiro?"

Keith bites his tongue. It tastes like the lies he's told the others to get this far.

"Incidental."

"I don't believe for a second that anything between the two of you has ever been 'incidental.'" 

Five years ago, the insinuation would have made Keith stammer and turn away. Keith _wants _to: somehow Lance makes him feel like the same kid who'd shoved the other out of the way to be the first in the room when Shiro had woken up on Earth. But now he's able to hold Lance's gaze, matching his leveled unamusement straight on. He doesn't have a response, though, and Lance takes that as invitation to question him further.

"So what, are you just going to ignore him the entire time?"

"That was the plan. I mean, I was thinking we'd just go back to the way it was before."

"Minus the moon eyes." This time Keith does have to look away, but he has the decency to fake a smile.

"Shut up. I'm wounded here."

Lance's own expression falters and he raises both hands to his hair to scratch at his head simultaneously. The can he's holding between his knees teeters precariously, and Keith chooses to watch it over fixating on the knots being revealed against the back of the other's skull.

"That's the thing, Keith. I have no idea how you're going to pull this off without acting like you totally hate each other."

"I don't _hate_ him, Lance." It's just as infuriating as it used to be when Lance sucks in a breath and begins to mutter under his breath in rapid Spanish, though Keith does make out the part where he says he's full of shit.

"Keith, it's been years. Are you really going to sit here and talk to me about what we all _need_ like you didn't just up and leave Earth days before the guy's wedding?"

And there's the rub, Keith thinks, in trying to convince Lance above all the others. Pidge, Hunk: they have a sense of urgency in the matter, they _know_ that none of their personal histories is more important than dragging their sharpshooter back into space. They have tact. But Lance... Lance is tired. He's tired of the Earth and its people, the pretense and subtext. He's tired of the stubbornness and stupidity that robs of happiness. Keith should have known - _would_ have had he not been so stuck inside his own head - that any reality in which he required Lance's compliance would also leave him completely at a loss. 

He'd _known_ that this conversation was inevitable. He'd laughed at the thought of it. But he'd not expected the way Lance would be able to bring him back to the moment, as if time had frozen with him staring down at his dress shoes, unable to do anything but leave regret in each resounding step.

"I was asked not to come."

"Oh." Keith didn't expect that statement to carry the weight it has, and Lance seems equally unsure what to do with the information. It gives him pause, and he chooses to rotate his own can between the pads of his fingers. What's left of the beer is warm, and he doesn't seem to have much taste for it. "He let us think that you didn't want to be there."

The information is news to Keith. He tells himself it doesn't matter, that Lance is probably hoping it'll distract him, and curses himself that it does. As quickly as he can, he files that away in the folder in his head: the sealed place where he stores information on the other that he just can't bring himself to open in the moment. Instead, he lets out a huff and hopes he can pass it off as a sigh.

"It was a long time ago Lance. Let's let bygones be bygones and forget about it."

"When has that ever accomplished anything?" Lance grumbles, and Keith lets himself smile at the way he prickles. It isn't until his response tastes air that he realizes the bitter note he's hit, and immediately feels sorry.

"It's called diplomacy, Lance."

"Fuck, Keith. What exactly did Shiro do to you?"

He's said the wrong thing again, and this time Keith knows he's not getting out of it. Lance is invariably pissed - when was the last time Keith's seen Lance actually get angry over something? He's so caught up in chasing down the memory (was it years ago? was it during the war? has Lance simply existed in the middle space of human emotion for so long that they've forgotten what it's like when he _feels_) that he stumbles with his response.

"I wasn't aware he did anything." 

It's a politic answer, one Keith doesn't actually think about as it slips from his tongue. What's worse, it seems to throw Lance further into his tantrum.

"Keith, come on, are you really not going to tell me what happened between you two?"

"Do I have to?" he whispers, and he can see the way that Lance recoils. It's sudden: Keith knows he's the cause of the change in the air, but for whatever reason he feels small. The sunset in front of him is no longer reflected over plains, but sand. He is alone, looking out on the horizon for the return of a man who will never come. He knows this, knows that social services is likely on their way to him now, and still he waits. 

Lance's hand has returned to his arm. He squeezes, and Keith is back, but Lance's face is down turned. 

"No, man. You never have to."

Now, Keith feels selfish. He feels like there is no ground beneath him, only waves of rolling water coming this way and that. The sense of failure that he's always feared is washing over his boots, licking up his ankles. Everything in his world is wrong, and he's supposed to be fixing it. Rebuilding it, like the Earth is still doing in the wake of the war. Keith is a raw nerve, but if anything Lance is rawer. He tells himself this as he focuses on his physical senses, returning to his purpose.

He's already come to terms with how his life is, with the things that can't be undone. If he hopes to change the rest, well, he can at least explain himself.

"We... we went separate ways."

"Uh huh."

"I wasn't ready to say goodbye. So we fought." Lance is looking at him as if he's speaking in tongues, and Keith just shrugs. "And then he wanted me to go. So I did."

"Are you... are you kidding me? That's it?" Keith is about to suck down the rest of his beer, but is met with empty air. He wrinkles his nose, crushing the can against his leg and jutting his chin in Lance's direction in search for another. Lance sees the movement, and pointedly bends his knee to block any attempts at intercepting another can. Keith wants to glare at him, but only musters up an eye roll.

He's not saying what he means to say, what he'd planned. Keith has practiced the words a hundred times between his exit from the halls of the Garrison and the turn of his key on the hoverbike out on Lance's hill. He'd prepared jokes, even, at his own expense to lighten the implications of their parting. Keith wants Lance to believe that the events of their dissolution are no more than a parody of misunderstandings, something that will magically be revived with the time and proximity of their upcoming mission. He wants all of these things to pass between them in instant understanding, and yet he cannot bring himself to be anything less than honest.

Keith's honesty is brutal. It is spartan. It is concise. It is quick lashes on his back that will sting far into the future. Worse yet, it is what Keith believes he deserves.

No. Worse yet, it is not what Lance deserves.

"There really isn't more to it than that. He was ready to move on with his life. I wasn't ready to let him."

Lance seems about ready to argue with him - though Keith isn't really sure there's any point in there to contend - before his mouth clamps shut with a clack. He opens it once more and shuts it again, his gaze suddenly accusatory.

"So wait, are you saying this whole time he's known you love him?"

"Lance..."

"Oh come on, it's a fair question!"

Keith isn't going to answer that. He doesn't even know if he can, really. There's too much history, too much that's been mixed up in bias and hypothesis. And there's that whisper again, a mantra, a dark prayer, reminding him of fears that eat away at his soul whenever he steps into the dark.

_Things unsaid are not inherently unknown.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I haven't committed to a regular update schedule, someone kindly pointed out to me that Mondays tend to be a better day to post. That said, the best way to be sure you see an update is to subscribe. 
> 
> In the same vein, I'm also currently developing not one, but min **three** other VLD series with various pairings. Feel free to come voice your preferences on which you'd like to see posted first on tumblr! I'll be rambling about hcs and various details of these (and my other non-VLD fics) there. Current front runners are:
> 
>   * Main Jaith / Endgame Sheith: Shiro Wump, post canon 
>   * Sheith Fix-It S6 (post Black Paladins) re-write 
>   * Sheith: Amnesia!Keith, post canon come-to-terms fic 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope that if you like it so far you'll let me know with a nice comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for vague descriptions (allusions) to PTSD. Tags have been updated.
> 
> For anyone interested, the mirror in Shiro's mind was inspired by [Iago's Mirror](https://collections.mfa.org/objects/552622) which resides at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, Massachusetts. In the years that I lived in the city, I spent many an hour staring into its deep abyss and wondering whether it was capable of driving men mad.

"What exactly does one bring on an intergalactic space... vacation?"

Four button downs, three sets - respectively - of Garrison uniform, six variations of collared casual-dress shirts, and five pairs of slacks. Curtis has spent the last hour spreading the entirety of their wardrobes out across the bed in their quarters, rotating in a pair of oxfords and out each of the Hawaiian prints Shiro has slipped behind an unassuming waistcoat. His face hadn't faltered at the traitorous substitution - if anything, Curtis seems to consider them equally before ultimately deciding against the atrocious articles. 

It's something he appreciates about his husband: his lack of judgement over that which he either doesn't agree with or understand. It's what makes him a good officer in an era of contact beyond their home world. It also makes him an enabler, Shiro muses lightly as he slips a single shirt with a repeating hibiscus pattern back into the mix, but that's something he also values. 

Shiro doesn't expect much leeway in the coming days, and he fully plans on taking advantage of these small moments.

Curtis doesn't seem to mind, not expressing so much as a sigh at the repetitive addition. Instead, he calculates, taking notice - somewhere in the corner of his mind that Shiro believes is made up of spreadsheets and statistical probabilities- and adjusting. It's those qualities that Shiro has come to rely on in maintaining a reasonably organized personal life, and while they may have been worn as unintelligible on Hunk or Pidge and infuriating on others like Slav, Curtis manages them with grace and flexibility. _Plan now, benefit later_: it's a mantra Shiro has bored into his mind through repetition from the other over the past four years and while he can appreciate the irony of being driven mad by another's insistent incantation, he can't pretend not to reap said benefits that having a borderline neurotic partner provides. Curtis is detail oriented to a fault, so Shiro doesn't have to be. 

Curtis is a lot of things for Shiro's sake, but he doesn't let himself think about that.

Right now, Curtis is making a face that Shiro reads as _trying not to implode from indecision._ It's a look he's seen before, has often taken enjoyment out of inducing, but currently feels a similar anxiety bubbling in his gut. Of the many things that Shiro has done that he has absolutely not wanted anything to do with, he can't help but feel the prick of anger at how entirely _unnecessary_ this whole thing is. Of course there are planets unhappy with the way things have developed since the end of the Galra empire. Of course they are entitled to delegation on how to rebuild and organize now that they're not being oppressed. But that has nothing to do with him, and nothing to do with why he's being made to go, anyway.

"It's not a vacation."

Curtis lets out an aspirated sputter, though his annoyance isn't directed at his husband. Rather, he's engaged in a tug of war with a pile of neckties that Shiro can't help but wonder why he thinks they'd need, but chooses not to comment on it. Instead, he busies himself with folding the latest load of whites, focusing on the familiar smell of their detergent in an effort to ease his mind.

"No, but it certainly seems as if we're being given time specifically intended to experience our surroundings between proceedings. Not that I'd know what to do on any of the planets that we're engaging with." Curtis sighs, letting the ball of satins fall from his hands so that he can tug at his hair unencumbered. "I've never even heard of Plox 7, or The Schism of the Illustrious Mim. Is that even a planet? What's the weather going to be like? Are we going to be required to blend in with the locals, or will Garrison Regulation be appropriate while we're on duty?"

Shiro turns, hands stilling in the warm clothes, and stares.

There is a mirror in Shiro's mind. It is less a fixture than it is a sculpture: larger than life, larger than him. There are layers to the glass, stacked atop each other in succession as the frame narrows to a flattened point, barely large enough to fit the reflection of Shiro's face. It glistens black, not yet silvered, but holds the intricacies of Murano glass carved by the world's most talented artisans. Shiro stands in front of the mirror now - though truly, he is always there to some degree - and watches unwillingly. It's reflective surface holds each and every shadow it is met with, traps it there in dark swirls. 

Usually, Shiro is able to avoid looking directly in this mirror. He avoids the call that can get him lost in the unidentifiable shapes that threaten to devour his pale reflection. But now as he stares he sees himself in the glass behind his own eyes. He sees a million other Shiros behind each of theirs, a never ending nightmarescape of everything that makes up _him_. 

"What are you talking about?" He asks, and as he speaks his reflection shifts into something that looks like him, but is something else entirely. It is inhuman. Curtis watches, the line of his mouth turning downward, and Shiro worries for a moment that he too can see into his mirror. More than that, he worries over the answer he knows is coming.

"Didn't you get the itinerary? Keith waved it to me two days ago."

_Keith._

The mirror in Shiro's mind shatters.

Curtis seems to gather that no, Shiro does _not_ have the itinerary, and quickly moves to remedy that. He finds his data pad under one of the overstuffed pillows at the head of their bed, scrolling through his short list of messages before pulling up the attachment. Shiro takes it hurriedly, nosing over Keith's concise but thorough notes, the frown lines gradually increasing on his forehead. 

By nature of their arrangement, Shiro knows that Keith would at some point be in contact with his husband. For fucks sake, they're going to be _living together_ on some ship for who knows how long, in who knows what kind of quarters. And yet, somewhere in the back of Shiro's mind, he'd expected more of a reprieve between their inevitable reintroduction and the actual journey itself. This, he'd thought, was still supposed to be a time of peace and of preparation. 

Except Shiro has not prepared himself for this. In fact, he's gone to great lengths to stash this knowledge deep into the corners of that mirror, black and inky like blood on the water. Now, though, the mirror is shards of glass scattered across the floor and while he knows logically that they cannot hurt him, he still fears that the edges are sharp.

Darkness is rising from the pieces in the wake of the break. He can feel the shadows, tangible-intangible, crawl up his skin and underneath his clothes: a dark embrace. Shiro swears he can hear them whisper things to him: dark thoughts that he's beaten into submission over the years and knows full well have flourished in the deepest recesses of his mind despite that. He hears them laugh, like the tinkling of bells, except those bells toll hauntingly from white nights far from past.

"Plox is cold... or one of them is. We'll need thicker socks."

Curtis, bless him, absorbs that information and everything else coming off of Shiro without any fanfare. He gently retrieves the data pad from his husband's ironclad grip, and Shiro tries to smile gently in apology as he lets it go. There's something unsaid that passes between them, a silent conversation that they've had more than once before of _life will go on if you can't do this_, but Shiro knows that his husband's permission is not the same as a real excuse. He knows that he's passed off his own insecurities as injuries from war far too many times to be anything but a comfortable lie. He knows that in spite of all this, Curtis won't ask him the questions he anticipates - deserves answers to even - in fear that maybe, just the smallest bit, it truly is the ghost of combat.

Instead, Curtis tugs him close, wrapping his arm around the other so he can kiss the line of his hair. Shiro succumbs to the touch, briefly, and tries to express his gratitude in a look when he does pull away.

"I'll go look up the rest of these planets. I'd meant to earlier, but had thought you'd want to brief me first. That's alright, isn't it?"

Shiro nods hurriedly, wanting nothing less than to have to research the border planets himself, lest they leave him with more than he needs to know. He offers to finish up what he can before Curtis returns, promising to make him a cup of tea once he's tamed the mess that they'd been ill prepared to tackle. 

The moment that Curtis is out the door, the laughter begins again, taunting him over how he plans on surviving the next few weeks if he can't even manage to pack himself a bag.

Shiro pivots toward the clothes, but his hands stop before he can make contact. It's like they've become the glass, the shards each with their own face watching him, measuring. Shiro looks down at them with hate, but they don't mirror the expression back. Rather, they are amused. Familiar. Their lips twitch with the weight of inconvenient truth: something Shiro dares not speak but curls on his tongue. It's a maddening sort of thing when he realizes the comfort that comes from the feeling they give him. This is a place he's lived before, and even though it may be bitter, denial is warm.

This is Keith's doing. Without intervention, Keith will ruin everything.

The floodgates burst open and Shiro lets himself - allows himself to- revisit their last conversation. It's difficult now that he's trying to: he has in fact thought about it before now, even if not willingly. He tries to focus on each small detail for signs of ill intention to diagnose, but intent in itself is such a thing that requires an intimacy that he no longer feels he possesses. No longer, but once before. His mind rushes, tripping over the idea that their last conversation was one in which he and Keith were so far apart, so displaced from each other, and not at all the same conversation which he has cataloged in his brain as being _last_. His _last conversation_ with Keith: it holds finality - or it had. It had held a sense of concrete tangledness, like a knot pulled so tight that no amount of effort could change it back into whatever it had been before. 

Shiro stops the thought in its tracks. Whatever it was before was wrong. It had been tainted. That's why they're here, after all.

Even so, he's not any closer to understanding where _here_ is anymore. He knows what he's been told, but Shiro is old and experienced enough to know that the others aren't exactly reliable narrators of their own positions. He could call Keith, ask him outright... in another reality. Hunk, though more than happy to hear from Shiro for the first time in far too long, hasn't really provided more insight than an enthusiasm to get back to the work of Protectors of the Universe. Shiro had even gone so far as to call Lance, but that interaction had touched some raw nerve between the both of them that left him with more questions than he'd had to begin with. Lance, certainly, was not himself: of that he would credit Keith's intel, but could Shiro really expect him to be? As for Pidge... well, they didn't seem to be on speaking terms. For all the apologies that Shiro's tried to give her for kicking her out of his office, he isn't sure what's keeping her from forgiving him. 

Of course, that's her prerogative: even if she's in the wrong on this one. Unfortunately for Shiro, Matt and Sam are either withholding their stores of information because they've an obligation to blindly side with her or because they don't have anything to offer. Based on his conversation with Iverson, Shiro begrudgingly decides it's the former.

The General was his own brand of unhelpful. In point of fact, he had been the first person Shiro had accosted about his dilemma (at 0700 hours no less) after his ex-best friend had sabotaged him in his office the night before. It would have actually been embarrassing if not for how furious Shiro had been at the way Iverson calmly intercepted any demands to cancel the requests for leave, claiming that their journey was a matter of the upmost international security and that Shiro was going to have to grow up and deal with it. He'd balked at the fact that Iverson wouldn't even dignify him with a proper briefing on the matter, claiming that there were enough ears around the Garrison to make it an insecure location for any details according to section B.7 of the Intergalactic Intelligence Committee, yada yada yada. Shiro still has just enough energy to fume over the dismissal, over the eerily satisfied look on the General's face in stating that any briefings he would get were on a need to know basis, contingent upon ongoing developments, so for now he was "shit out of luck."

Apparently, Shiro doesn't need to know.

Which isn't to say that _no one_ knows. Far from it: Shiro is almost entirely certain that this "mission" isn't coming from some command. No, this has the hallmark of a Kogane Hail Mary. He doesn't trust in that one bit.

There's a part of Shiro - a very small part, at the current moment - that wonders if maybe it really is about Lance. Despite the distance and blatant distaste for the interruption in his life, Shiro _is_ genuinely concerned for his friend. Lance has always had a softness that the others never could quite match - one that had left him beyond devastation and scarred where he should see himself as marked - and Shiro knows that it's been ignored in the years following the war. He knows that things haven't gotten better for him, all alone on the farm - not even his family's farm - but he still can't bring himself to believe. Shiro can't afford to think about Lance in a way that acknowledges the death of his past self: of his innocence. He cannot let his compassion be exploited like that... because that's exactly what Keith would want.

It always comes back to Keith. It always has, since the day they first met.

Shiro doesn't know why he's important to this mission, Lance or no Lance. He may have been the guy's hero as a boy, but he's far from his best friend now. He isn't even a Paladin, he reminds himself with a begrudging that sticks to the roof of his mouth like toffee. Voltron doesn't exist because he's there to fill the role of leader. Voltron doesn't even _exist-_

There's a tinkering noise in the other room. It breaks through Shiro's heavy headspace, pulling him back to their bedroom and out of blinding dark. A second passes and he realizes that the sound is metal on ceramic: Curtis making the tea that Shiro had promised him earlier. Shiro bites the inside of his cheek, a mixture of annoyed and grateful that the task is being done for him. He can't have taken that long to process the obvious betrayal that contacting Curtis directly had been - which it was. It absolutely _fucking_ was. If this was some sort of psychological war that Keith was planning, he had definitely crossed the line, and if he expected Shiro to just go along with it - 

Shiro has to take a deep breath to ground himself. Glancing at the clock, he sees an hour has somehow passed him by.

It's been five years since the war ended, and the universe is not the same place as it was before Shiro left for Kerberos. There's a fine line between hypervigilance and paranoia, and Shiro has been through enough therapy in the wake of this new world to know that he may be toeing that boundary a little too comfortably. 

Surely, Keith has moved past everything that's transpired between them. Shiro certainly has, he reminds himself, allowing a moment to take stock of his life, his career, his husband. He's being ridiculous to think that he would mean anything to Keith after all these years, let alone to be someone worthy of the level of planning and commitment that it would take to entirely destroy his sanity. There's a little pang in his chest at the thought of meaning nothing to Keith - one of the reflections in the glass shards of Shiro's minds flinches - and Shiro immediately is filled with a lurking sense of doubt. 

"_Shiro,_" he had said, and there had been something in Keith's tone of voice, something unsaid but not inherently obscured. Shiro does not need to hear the words to know. He has never needed to hear them, has never heard them as himself, and yet he _knows_.

Maybe his paranoia is justified after all.

He's not getting anywhere and can't pretend he is, so he scrubs his hands over his eyes and makes the decision to focus on what he can accomplish rather than what he can't be sure of. There's no use in enduring the torture of wondering what will transpire once they board the vessel off world, especially not with the reality looming only days away. It's pointless even to wonder why Keith hadn't bothered to include him in the messaged itinerary; if it's an action of animosity, well, he'll find out. Instead, Shiro does his best to discern which of the piles of clothing Curtis has sectioned off over their comforter will be useful and which he'd rather not have the crew see him in and deposit the rest where they belong. He can figure out what to wear during down time later - after letting Curtis read up to his hear's content - and making the decisions together.

And really, what's a sweater here or a pair of swim trunks there?

Shiro really does his best. He makes sure no garment goes unfolded, no sock goes unmatched. He even goes so far as to transplant their definite travelling wardrobe to the top of the bureau inside the closet, spread out along the vanity top in clearly identifiable sections while making sure their aesthetic tidiness is not interrupted. He gives the bedspread a quick de-ruffling before heading out into the kitchen of their quarters. Curtis, anticipatory to a fault, sits on a stool at the counter with a steaming cup of tea set on a warmer for Shiro. He looks up from his datapad tiredly, but graces the other with a welcoming smile as he finally joins him. 

"I've compiled a brief guide for us, just so we know a little about where we're going. Will you sit with me?"

Some of the tension in Shiro's shoulders goes lax as he takes a seat next to his husband, shoulders touching lightly. Curtis is quick to slip off his own reading glasses and offer them up with his document, leaning in close so they can share the view of the soft lettering against the bright backdrop, and pulling the cup of tea over so that Shiro doesn't have to extend his Altean arm. Shiro sips from the cup slowly as Curtis outlines what generally reads as positive possibilities along their voyage and basks in the naturally sweet taste that cleanses more than his palate. It's chamomile, and Shiro is silently thankful for the way in which his husband has been considerate enough to avoid unnecessarily caffeinating him. Curtis is kind like that, and while Shiro knows well enough to feel guilty over dragging him into yet another journey into space without any real choice in the matter, he basks in the knowledge that the happiness he experiences now is something that neither war nor warrior have been able to touch.

After all, Shiro has already lost so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay in updates. As much as I wish I could say that I'll be able to stick to weekly updates, this break happened after I had surgery last month and I'm due for another in six weeks ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> Grateful thanks to everyone who commented, but especially falsechaos for making my poor weak heart smile so damn much. And as always, my beta not_enough_sapphics for putting up with my many, many rants at ungodly hours of the night.
> 
> A brief story note: Though this chapter was Shiro's POV, the majority of future chapters will center around Keith's POV. That said, I plan on updating tags/cws as any descriptions of PTSD and trauma (as well as anything else pertinent) rear their heads. If at any time those tags seem insufficient, please feel free to message me via [tumblr](https://notanothernameforrose.tumblr.com/) and I will make the appropriate changes. You can also yell at me on tumblr regardless, because for some reason I'm _still there_.


	5. Chapter 5

For someone who has known physical intimacy a shockingly small number of times, Keith is aware that he is totally and completely _fucked_.

What he's not aware of is how Lance has managed to talk him into this. He'd been prepared, as a worst case scenario, to simply hog-tie the other and force him onto his ship. There were very few eventualities, he had thought, in which Lance would outright refuse to join him. This had not been one of them. Or rather, it _had_ happened, though he had not been in the least bit prepared for the solution that Lance had presented him with in it's stead.

Lance is here, though. Small victories, at least?

Keith considers it the first of many much needed victories. The second he hopes for - and possibly the larger of the problems that Keith expects to be faced with - is the possibility of truce between him and Shiro. He's both thankful and a bit unnerved at the lack of contact he's received from the other between the confirmation and the present time, though he'd expected it. Despite his agreement, which Keith begrudgingly had to coerce, nothing between them is any different than it was before he'd crashed into his life. Nothing has changed, except for the addition of Curtis's name in his communicator and a series of short, polite messages about what to expect on the upcoming journey. That, Keith _hadn't _expected, and while he's taken the brief second that it required to realize that Curtis does not seem to understand the nature of his dissolved friendship with his husband, he hasn't given himself a chance to ponder over it any further.

Keith doesn't hate Curtis. He doesn't even resent him; after all, he hadn't lied in telling Shiro that Curtis was a vital asset in what he's hoping to accomplish. Maybe he'd been a bit misleading about what those accomplishments are, but that doesn't change the fact that Curtis is just as necessary as Lance, Hunk, and Pidge. Or, even, as Shiro.

Keith knows - and hopes that if it is true for him it is universally recognized - that value can exist in great quantities without the requisite of predilection.

Watching carefully as the band of colleagues and once-brothers file individually into the launch hangar reserved for Garrison transport, Keith makes an effort to stow away his anticipation. He's left his ship's loading bay open, an invitation that no one takes for what it is, choosing instead to loiter outside. Keith tries not to be hurt by the overt procrastination - Lance isn't even present yet - but the sense that things are no longer what they were stings involuntarily. Looking out, seeing the four of them bristle with nerves and awkward energy, Keith can't help but to feel the prickle of loss.

They're a sorry sight in so far as he's concerned. Neither of the Shirogane's have let a hand, respectively, drift from their small, matching suitcases: Garrison issue, Keith recognizes immediately. Hunk's trying for some kind of friendly reminiscing with Shiro, much to Pidge's growing annoyance. She's making some of her best efforts (of those that qualify without the aid of alien tech) to pilfer the engineer's attention while making it abundantly clear that the other doesn't exist. Curtis, who Keith has the misfortune of commiserating with at the current moment, seems not to understand that his husband is choosing to be equally as petulant in ignoring her blatant attempt at pettiness, continuing on with Hunk as if there isn't a five foot gremlin hanging off of his arm.

And Lance had had the audacity to think that _Keith_ was going to be the source of unnecessary drama.

The sharpshooter in question is the last to enter - Veronica's insisted on being his personal detail while on base, for which Keith is secretly grateful - and as he does, something in the air changes. Pidge and Hunk seem to light up, flashes of a youthful excitement that Keith can't remember seeing in them in years bubbling to the surface all at once. Even Curtis, who Keith doesn't think knows Lance from Kolivan, seems to brighten at his entrance. The only one who doesn't share in their immediate cheer is Shiro, whose face flashes with something akin to guilt momentarily before Lance has a hand on his arm, bright eyes thanking him for being there.

Keith can't really bring himself to be bothered by Shiro's reaction. He doesn't care; somehow, despite his worries and most recent challenge, when Lance meets his eyes from across the hangar all Keith can think about is how totally and completely grateful he is to be sharing in a brand new moment of all of them, together.

It lasts about five seconds: just enough time for Lance's smile to slide into something far more sly.

Keith's worried again.

"So," Lance speaks, breaking away from the group to bridge the gap between them and where Keith is leaned up against the bay's hydraulic lift. "Where we headed, Captain?"

Keith's ears prickle at the title but he doesn't let his face change, keeping the somewhat sullen frown in place against his instincts. Lance, being ahead of the rest of the team, decides that he can make whatever faces he likes without risk of scrutiny, and doesn't hesitate to add in an unashamed wink. It would be charming, if not for the fact that it reminded Keith of how far from himself Lance seems in appearance alone. Keith pushes off of his perch, arms crossing in front of him as if second nature simply to being addressed. He unfurls them just as quickly, the reminder of a past lesson from a mentor ringing in the back of his mind: _a leader is never standoffish with his team_.

"I'll debrief everyone as much as I can inside. We've got more than one security protocol to work with on this one," he says with some semblance of finality, but stops when no one else aside from Lance makes to move. "Guys? Is there a problem?"

The entire hangar seems to blink, as if stupefied. 

"So, uh, are we just not going to talk about the elephant in the room then?" Hunk says. Everyone goes tense, and Lance's gaze slides almost wickedly to Keith. "Dude, _this _ is your ship?"

The tension in the air splits right along the seam of Pidge's unattractive snort, which makes Keith cross his arms in front of his chest defensively, whispers be damned.

"What are you trying to imply, Hunk?"

"Nothing! Nothing - we just expected you to pilot something, a bit..."

"Trashier." Pidge supplies, readily.

"Slicker." Shiro finds himself correcting instinctively, despite seeming determined to keep his mouth otherwise shut. Keith makes an effort not to look at him directly, in case his face reveals something that pulls too roughly at the hyper-vigilante gears in his head.

"Faster," Hunk finally settles on, looking almost sheepish at what he's started. 

Curtis opens his mouth like he's about to intercede, offer something polite to say, but Keith just shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He's suddenly very, very tired.

"You owe me fifty Coalition Credits, baby," Lance grins at him wolfishly, and Keith shoots him a glare that's tinged with a bit of pink despite himself. 

"This is short range transport, _and_ one of my personal ship, thanks. We won't be on it for long, and I can debrief everyone about our initial rendezvous with a more permanent set up once Pidge helps me rig up a privacy screen." He shoots Pidge a look that she returns with a grin, and it almost seems to work. For a split second, it seems like everyone's ready to let go of the awkwardness of the situation and finally board, except Keith makes the mistake of looking over the group once more before ushering them in. Shiro, in some sort of belated embarrassment of actually having insulted Keith's ship upon their first quasi conversation, turns to whisper something assumingly humorous to Hunk, and that's all it takes for Pidge to revert back into a shoulder demon. It's Lance who, with a sigh and a pleading look from Keith, decides to take the initiative and escort Curtis in first. Shiro, of course, is quick to follow behind his husband, and doesn't even bother with the cursory needled stare at Keith as he sidles past.

_Okay,_ Keith thinks, granting himself one small, private moment to actually entertain a thought regarding the other Black Paladin. _Not a truce._

Absently, his mind wanders to memories of blades against his throat and the heat of a volcano on his back. He sighs wistfully. What simpler times those were.

There's no need to delegate initial roles, which Keith is thankful for as he flips the initial switch that has the loading ramp tucking itself away. Pidge, with an unnecessary, yet helpful, hand from her favorite engineer, is quick to fit the ship with her own brand of external security while Keith slips past the rest of the crew to tinker with the nav sats. The hydraulic doors close as the rest of the gang settles into place in the cargo bay, chatting idly as the engines begin their slow hum to life. It's a bit of a tighter fit than is strictly comfortable, even with Keith at the helm by the controls, but the bay is flanked with more than one door on each side that seems to assume most of the bulk of the ship. 

"All set," Team Punk chimes, falling back to the group and adding to the expecting looks thrown in the direction of their leader. Keith stands straighter, clearing his throat and shifting his gaze to Lance, who's taken it upon himself to use one of the Shirogane's suitcases as a chair. He grins apologetically, but Keith doesn't miss the bounce in his leg and shake in his left hand. 

Lance is tired - has he slept at all in the past couple of weeks since Keith's visit to the farm? The everpresent bags under his eyes seem darker, more wrinkled - Keith catches himself staring and blinks rapidly, realizing that he's kept his audience waiting. 

"Alright team, thanks for pulling this together. I know you all have a lot of questions, and I'll try to cover as much ground as possible once we're in free space. For now, you all have an idea that we're headed out to the border planets to delegate the implementation of further peace keeping and to provide ethical oversight on some of the more delicate issues that the general laws haven't been able to cover. Some of the planets on our schedule are only just developing as cultures while others were under Galra rule for deca-phoebs, so there's going to be a bit of a learning curve. You've all been waved our tentative itinerary, but we need to keep in mind that not all of these planets have had or asked for physical intervention as of yet. Tech can be a scarcity out there, and we may have additions to our docket based on any need we assess as we go.

In short, our job is simple: these planets are looking to join the Coalition under the New Altean Peace Treaties. They are aware of the rules, but haven't had much contact with anyone off world and don't specifically have an understanding of how these laws would apply to their respective cultures. We're there as neutral moderators to make sure that these rules can be implemented fairly and act as a buffer between any internal conflicts or external aid forces that may be recruited while we're there."

He says it in what seems to be a long, single breath, leaving his lungs empty by the time he finishes. The group stares, a mix of attentive and eager to move out, and Keith takes it as a sign that he's not given them enough information. He fumbles, not sure what else to begin addressing, when Curtis gently raises a hand at shoulder height.

"Who exactly are we representing as delegates? I mean, in terms of who these diplomats believe they're dealing with."

Keith blinks, then finds himself nodding. Yes, that was a good place to start.

"Fair question. As we all know, after the Voltron Coalition evolved into what is now the Galactic Coalition, New Altea was placed in charge of overseeing the general governance of all planets under the Treaties. That said, there has been a rise in the number of regional alliances in terms of shared diplomacy, as well as a upkick in relief missions that are establishing themselves as independent governments. The Blades of Marmora is one example, and the Coalition is in the process of evolving to accommodate these new forms of civilization. We're representing all of them, with the particular advantage of ethical blindness."

"Ethical blindness?" Hunk chimes in, and Keith is relieved to hear that he's still on the side of curious.

It's a kind of relief that borders on manic. Keith knows beyond any measure of doubt that Hunk's attendance was never really in question, but his excitement is an entirely different beast. The exclusive diplomatic dinner series with the Altean Peace Embassy, the _Forage and Feast_ campaign he's spearheaded to bring accessible food to the millions of refugees in the wake of the war, his chosen family of Shay and Romelle, his _actual_ family: Hunk has always had more to lose than the others. No amount of forged leave documents or favors called in from allies past is enough to cover all of the responsibilities Hunk's designed his life around, and Keith is painfully aware that of all of them, Hunk is the only one left that's still fighting the good fight, truly. The Yellow Paladin has managed to sacrifice so much - willingly, happily - while keeping a tight hold on his ideals and personal ambitions. Keith envies him as much as he fears he's asked too much of him, and the simple sign that he's looking forward to taking off with the rest of them is enough to temporarily put Keith's mind at ease. 

He hopes, with a sort of gratitude and affection that he reserves solely for Hunk, that his excitement is enough to levy the rest of the group. More often than not, in times past, it was Hunk's attitude that set the tone for them all.

"Well, Earth is classed as a mid-tier planet, meaning we're civilized and have some current tech, but are still in the process of developing. We have access to more advanced technologies from our encounters with other species and cultures, but we're also rebuilding the planet from scraps. That, and having the experiences of Paladins of Voltron, puts us in the unique position of understanding both the desperation of where we came from versus the knowledge of what we still have to achieve."

"Oh, I get it," Pidge offers, a devious look on her face. "We'll still be skeeved out if we land on a planet where cannibalism is the norm, but we won't judge them too harshly as an alien culture."

"Yeah, I'm not sure that kind of thing would go over as well with the Alteans," Lance speaks up, seeming far away. Hunk punches Pidge's arm lightly, and Keith catches the sideways look that Curtis throws at Shiro, the one that clearly says, _Cannibals, dearest? You signed me up for cannibals?_ Keith groans inwardly, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Nobody's eating anybody else, thanks, Pidge." She's unbothered by the call out, which Keith takes in stride. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and sigh, but does let a bit of the rigidity between his shoulders loosen. That, he expects, was the true goal of her comment anyway. "But in essence, yeah, we're less uptight than the Alteans, more strict about the rules than the local governments probably are, and can offer the services of groups like the Blades once we know what it is we're dealing with."

"Which, not to butt in or anything, Keith - I mean, you're doing a great job buddy - but, doesn't that kind of imply that we _don't_ know what we're dealing with?" Keith cracks a half smile in Hunk's direction as he asks, the jittery enthusiasm that drips from the question infectious. Lance is the exception, but he remains observant and patient, both present and altogether far away.

"None of the planets we're visiting harbor any clear and present danger, if that's what you mean." Hunk's face visibly falls, as if he was actually looking forward to the prospect of running into trouble. Pidge is also quick to turn somewhat sour, but keeps it schooled while Keith finishes. "I promise, everyone will be briefed on each of the worlds before we get there, so there's unlikely to be any major surprises. I've made sure to vet any questionable requests in advance, so this shouldn't be too demanding on any of us. "

How Lance manages the sheer temerity of the eye roll that follows is a mystery to Keith, one he doesn't have the chance to chagrin before being interrupted again.

"Yeah, that's great Keith - where are we going and where are we staying until we get there?"

Keith flinches. It's minuscule, enough to seem to go unnoticed for a half second, but then Shiro's eyes have narrowed and his back is straighter. Keith doesn't look at him, his focus entirely on Lance, and he can see that the other has picked up on the change next to him. Lance, though, doesn't make any such moves, just waits with an uncharacteristically unreadable expression on his face.

_Fuck._

"I've requisitioned a wormhole directly from here to Daibazaal. There's some cargo of a sensitive nature and some Blades' files that I need to pick up before we switch transport, so I've taken the liberty of setting everyone up with rooms for the next twelve vargas or so that it'll take to load supplies and move on to our next destination." 

"You couldn't have stopped off at home before picking everyone up?" 

Shiro's question is barked out with an alien sounding laugh, drawing raised eyebrows from the group, Curtis included. Keith's lips purse, holding his tongue still inside his mouth - and with it, his uncertainty as to how to respond civilly. 

"Keith doesn't live on Daibazaal. Keep up, Shirogane," Pidge grits out under her breath, and that seems to knock the faux smile off the other's face quickly enough. Curtis says nothing, simply shooting his husband a mindful look and turning his attention back to their leader.

"Yeah, so anyway," Hunk jumps in, both to Keith's relief and immediately following horror. "Twelve vargas, not exactly a huge cargo hold here: we're obviously not loading more than an hour's worth of stuff, am I right? So we're sticking to the same star system for our final destination, yeah? Which, I mean, if you do the math, that only could be-"

"We're going to New Altea."

No one means to, but everyone turns to Lance at the sound of his voice. He's stood now, arms crossed over his chest, eyes boring into Keith as if he's hoping the other will combust on the spot. Keith stands his ground, trying to keep his expression softer than usual, but the collective tension that's being held between the former teammates has a knot forming in his lower back.

"We'll be meeting with Coalition delegates on the planet's surface before wormholing to our first itinerary point, yes. It's a quick formality; they all know that we'll be supplying them with steady reports of our findings as the proceedings go on. Mainly, we'll be there to change ships and pick up our final attaché."

"You don't mean-" Pidge starts.

"Oh, boy, I think he does-" Hunk grabs her by the shoulders.

"Coran?" They splutter in unison, and Keith wishes that he could break the stalemate he's currently locked in to throw a grin their way. Wishes, but doesn't take his eyes off of Lance, expression unchanged.

"Yeah. Coran is coming. And he's piloting the new Castleship."

There's a moment of emotion from the lot. Pidge and Hunk exclaim loudly, their excitement unbridled, whooping and dancing around each other. Shiro smiles despite himself, the edges of it melancholy and the wrinkles appearing against his forehead fond. Curtis too seems pleased, alternating between soft amusement at the younger two's outburst and a rubbing a soothing hand against his husband's arm in understanding. Keith's heart lurches, the first wave of reality setting in that yes: this is finally happening. He's gotten them this far, and that's earned them togetherness without the requisite of battle. What's a few shadows, he thinks - making an effort not to be affected by the singular still pillar among the cheer - when life is about to go technicolor again?

Five years ago, he would've been able to tune out the sounds of the others and directly touch Lance's mind. _Trust me,_ he would've been able to say, pushing the feeling through space and time to tug at the other's heart, _we just have to survive this, and I promise you we'll be alright_. Today, Keith is met with nothing but silence: a stony wall that's been left by the absence of the lions, mortared by the barriers they're all guilty of hiding behind. 

He stops trying to reach out. He's not sure if he remembers how to do it right, even if it were possible.

"Shiro, Curtis, I've got the two of you in the main quarters: the door just to your left. Pidge and Hunk, you've got the second guest bunks back there, to your right." He nods in the direction of the furthest door, knowing that it's time to move on. There's little he can do right now, in his role of friendly Commander, so he settles into his weary casualty as comfortably as he can. "The four of us are sharing the bathroom that connects rooms, so try not to turn into animals until we've each got private quarters on the Castleship."

"That's kind, Keith, but we don't want to intrude on your space -"

Curtis doesn't get to finish what he's saying. Keith shakes his head, ignoring whatever look is blooming on Shiro's face. He's still not sure how to read him - either of them - and it feels like too much too soon to try. 

"You're not. I keep that room for my mother, in case she feels the sudden need to get away from the communal living with the Blades." He tries his best to crack a smile, hoping it reads as something resembling pleasant. "She has yet to take me up on it, though, so it's pretty untouched. I don't think she's a fan of my ship either." Curtis shoots him a sympathetic grin, and that's enough for Keith, for now. 

"There's a closet in the bathroom in there if you need a secure place to store your luggage before we reach our destination. Wormhole is scheduled in fifteen minutes; I suggest everyone gets their things together and finds the flight seats in their rooms." He adds, turning to the rest of the group. There's a hushed fumbling, everyone taking their cues and gathering their belongings in preparation to move out. Everyone, of course, but one.

Keith steels himself, and finally brings himself to meet the icy blue eyes edged in anger across the hold from him.

"Lance, you're with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story: I've been struggling with progressively worsening health over the past few years and low and behold, it turns out I've got an autoimmune disease. I'm finally starting treatment, so hopefully that means this story can get back to semi-regular updates? This chapter has been sitting near finished in my docs for months, but I couldn't see past the brain fog to edit it.
> 
> Thanks to @Not_Enough_Sapphics for betaing, and convincing me to cut this down to under 4k from what was almost a 9k dumpster fire.
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr. New name @ blackflowersblossom.


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